Between Two Worlds
by DasCheesenborgir
Summary: Even the most faithful of the Emperor's servants have their doubts. In a rare moment of reprieve, a Black Templar contemplates his actions.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Holy crap, that was so much damn longer than I expected. I can't say I'm entirely satisfied with the ending, seems a bit cheesy and rushed but… fuggit. I'm done with this thing now, got it outta my system, and dear god, I am not spending anymore time on it. **

**So just read the damn thing already.**

Minor Update: Cover image changed to something I drew. Unfortunately, scanner's not the best and it's a bit dim. Oh well.

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**"_In the distant maze, I see two doors:_**

**_One leads to change, one leads to where I've been before_**

**_I am an angel, on broken wings _**

**_I am the beast, the devil and all in between_**

**_Nothing at all…"_**

Streaks of light pink soared across the open skies above Whiterun's ragged tundra, the setting sun bathing the shrub-dotted earth in a warm shade of faint orange. Mottled brown and faded green grass swayed gently as a cool breeze swept across the plains, the wailing whisper left in its wake the only sound to be heard for miles.

From the top of his craggy, moss-encrusted perch, Sword Brother Mortis knelt, his muscles taut with anticipation under layers of ceramite plating, his eyes surveying the shoddy, tattered excuse of an encampment laid out before him from beneath the ruby eyeslits of his helm with contempt. Bleached bones lay strewn about the fertile dirt, brittle and brutalized by the weather, the marrow inside having long since dried out. Towards the centre of the camp, a single oaken chest rested, overflowing with trinkets and trophies or whatever else the camp's simpleton inhabitants deemed to be of value.

The grassy earth trembled at the lumbering approach of a giant, its enormous, worn club slung casually over its shoulder as it lazily waltzed back and forth , swaying side to side upon its tall, thickly muscled legs, and completely oblivious to the presence of the Black Templar watching from above.

Mortis glared as the thing halted to scratch at its dirty, shaggy beard, muttering incoherent grunts as it picked away at the frizzled clump of black hair. Of all the filthy xenos that inhabited this backwater planet, these so-called 'giants' were amongst the most despicable of them all, wandering aimlessly in muddled confusion, romping across the landscape in ignorant blindness.

He yearned to deliver the Emperor's judgement to the disgusting simpleton roaming about beneath him at that moment, but there remained a far more important target that had yet to show itself. The time was not yet right. He consoled himself, quelling the raging pyres of righteous fury beating in his twin hearts as he had been forced to do countless times before, unwilling to allow his emotions to overtake logic. _Soon, _he thought, just a few moments more.

After all, several months of being stranded without proper equipment to maintain his armor had taught him that a more subtle approach to combat was more appropriate. The more he could kill without them detecting him, the less chance his armor would suffer irreparable damage.

He had always thought of it as cowardly, still viewed it as cowardly, but necessity unfortunately called for unpleasant experiences at times; something he found himself having to consider more than he would have liked these days. He grimaced at the thought, clamping down on his doubts with an iron fist before the flood of recent… unpleasant memories overtook him.

The hunt would take his mind off of things.

He was actually surprised at how enthralled he could be in it, having never had time to do anything quite like it before. He still remembered his first real taste vividly, the blue-garbed Stormcloaks following him staring in awe as he wrestled with a sabre cat and brutally tore its jaw off. The encounter had earned him a nasty claw mark on his shoulderpad, but it gave him a feeling, an unnatural rush he had never experienced the likes of before.

He had been tracking this pair of mammoths for the better part of an hour now, having had spotted them grazing in the meadows, the primitive markings on their tusks easily giving away that they were being herded by a group of giants.

There was something primal that burned in him, something that rushed through his veins in glee as he charged a colossal beast twice his size, something that howled in joy as he sprang from a concealed position and drove his blade into the hide of a creature, disemboweling it in a single swipe. He did not know what it was, but it made him feel… content. _More so than anything else in this place, _he reflected. Given the light of recent events, that was exactly what he needed.

For all the enjoyment he may have found in hunting for sport however, he was wary not to indulge in it too much. The senseless slaughter of others, no matter how large or small, was a sure path to damnation, to the bloodthirsty insanity of the likes of the mindless followers of Khorne.

_Still_, he thought, xenos were xenos, and he doubted the Codex would disapprove of him removing another pack of them from existence this time.

His musings were interrupted as a triumphant roar echoed further away, from another one of the giants as it reared back out of a shallow pond, the dull grey shell of a mudcrab clutched between its calloused fingers. The crab was helpless as it writhed about, tiny legs squirming in the giant's grasp as its grip tightened around the crab's head. With an effortless flick of its thumb, the great beast crushed the hapless critter's head, a sharp _crack _accompanying its demise.

It roared out again, beckoning at another giant further out in the plains in its guttural bastardization of a language. Mortis tensed at the sudden shift in movement, the giant directly below him also turning as the third giant bellowed back. The Templar's fingers curled tighter around the worn hilt of his sword, ceramite scraping on refined ebony as he shifted his gaze to the horizon.

And there they were. Peaking over the jagged spires of stone that rose from the ground and blotting out the last rays of the sun as it hung on the edge of the horizon, a pair of mammoths lumbered forth, their snouts raised high in the air and letting loose buffeting trumpets.

Two mammoths and three giants. All accounted for.

Mortis diverted his gaze back to the giant he had been tracking, the rippled, pale flesh arching down its exposed back a tantalizing target. He allowed a feral smirk to grace his twisted lips beneath his helm.

He leaped from his stone precipice, strips of parchment attached to the numerous purity seals dotting his armor fluttering and swirling around him as he descended. The beautifully crafted ebony claymore clutched in his hands sang with eager bloodthirst as he brought it down upon the giant in a deadly downwards arc.

Mortis sneered with contempt as the xenos shrieked in agony, the honed edge of the ebony sword shearing through its back, cleaving sinew and bone asunder. Mortis felt a pang of satisfaction at the telltale _crack _of bone as he guided the blade through the beast's spine, ripping the sword out of the thing's side in a shower of tattered muscle and steaming gore as he landed with a thunderous crash.

With dark, crimson blood cascading out of the jagged gash torn out from its back, a weak moan escaped the giant's tattered lips before it drunkenly lumbered forwards, its calloused and muscle-corded legs unable to hold him anymore and collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap.

The sudden rush of adrenaline, the promise of combat washed away Mortis' doubts and musings for the time being as it propelled him forwards. The ground trembled as he thundered forwards, heavy black boots crushing bones and stones beneath their soles as they carried the Black Templar to his next target.

The second giant had finally snapped out of its dumbfounded reverie, casting aside the limp mudcrab in its hands and bellowing a warcry at Mortis before hauling itself out of the pool, swinging its tall, rippling legs out of the clear blue water.

Its ugly face was twisted with fury as it lumbered forth, its muscled arms pulling back as it reared its club high above its head, ready to bring it crashing down upon the Black Templar. The heavy, jagged stone head of its club smashed into the ground, kicking up tonnes of deep black fertile soil but sailing past its target. It blinked in confusion as it attempted to register what had happened, the bulky armored figure that had been in front of it a second earlier no longer there.

Agonizing pain shot up its leg, the answer to its unspoken question ripping into nerve clusters and muscle fibre in the back of its knee. It howled as Mortis followed through with the swing, thick clusters of tendons and ligaments rent asunder as the razor edge of his blade sawed through and exploded out of the giant's kneecap.

Its right leg severed, the giant was unable to maintain its balance and tumbled back into the pool it had crawled out of, thick velvet blood pouring out of the open wound on its leg as it hit the water with a cacophonous splash. Mortis was quick to leap down into the now red-stained water, his heavy boot angled towards the beast's scarred chest.

He heard the resounding crunch of bone through the splashing of bloodied water upon his armor, as the bottom of his boots connected with the pale, unarmoured flesh of the giant. A geyser of gore, blood and shards of bone erupted from the newly-excavated cavity in its chest, the giant's head rocketing out of the thin sheen of water it had been submerged in, shrieking in choked agony as drops of blood and water were spat out of its mouth.

_This is the judgement of the righteous, scum, _he thought, snarling as the giant thrashed about beneath his boot, brittle yellow nails clawing pathetically at the ceramite pillar of a boot that was embedded in its chest, unwilling to die like the filth it was. That was swiftly rectified as Mortis plunged the tip of the claymore into the beast's head, cleaving through its skull and dashing its paltry brains out against the ground.

Even with two of the three giants dead, there was no reprieve for him. The third had closed its distance to him far quicker than Mortis had anticipated, and the only warning he had of its approach was the telltale roar that it bellowed in its heretical tongue, and the enormous shadow that was suddenly looming over him.

He pivoted, bringing his blade around to greet the giant that had leaped into the air and was now plummeting down, the dirty white stone head of its club shining menacingly as it caught a few dying rays of sunlight. With no time to dodge the giant's club as it plunged down to crush him, Mortis did the only thing he could, bracing himself against his claymore as he held it vertically in front of him.

He growled as the club crashed into his blade in a shower of sparks, the force behind the blow far stronger than he had been expecting and smacking the weapon clean out of his hands. It scythed through the air and buried itself into the side of the bluff that rose up from the pool a good ten feet away as the giant made landfall.

Time seemed to slow as it reared back, slinging its enormous club over its shoulder for another swing, a vicious visage of primal fury etched in its winkled face. Any logical being would have taken the ample time available to dance out of the descending club's warpath and retrieve their weapon; Mortis was not thinking logically at that moment.

His twin hearts thundered with rage at the scum that dared to defile his weapon, the pyres of righteous fury within him erupting into an inferno. A scream of hatred shrieked out of his lips, further amplified by his helm's voxcaster as he barreled forth, leaping into the air and sending his fist crashing down on the giant's skull.

He savoured the crack of bone that followed, the thick folds of skin on the beast's forehead splitting apart beneath his ceramite-clad fingers. He savoured the glint of fear that shone in the thing's grey eyes as it lost its balance, gravity dragging it down into the pool… with Mortis right on top of it.

With blinding red crawling up the edge of his vision, the Black Templar forced the giant's head under the water, his left hand gripping the giant's throat in a deathly, suffocating hold, his right raining blows against the soft flesh of its head. He snarled and spat inside his helm, muttering litanies and howling praises to the God Emperor as he reduced the xenos' head to a bloody pulp.

The second blow landed where the first had struck, the ragged gash torn in the mottled folds of skin opening wider; the third blow caved in its eye, the jellied grey orb squashed under an armored fist; with the fourth and final blow, the dome of its head split open, grey matter anointing the Black Templar's gauntlets as they rocketed into the white skull that encased it.

For the second time in mere moments, Mortis found himself on the receiving end of an unpleasant surprise. One of the mammoths had charged ahead of the other, leaping down into the bloody pit where two of its masters had been butchered, trumpeting with fury.

Its two right tusks caught Mortis between his arm and his shoulderpad, the force doing little more than scratching the black ceramite that shielded the Black Templar, but it was more than enough to hurl him against the far stone wall.

His eyepiece readouts came alight with warning runes from his helmet as he crashed into the wall, the rock splintering behind him under his weight and effectively wedging him into a jagged crevice. He yelled in frustration as he frantically jerked his torso side to side, trying to shake himself free of the craggy burrow he had been forced into before the mammoth barreled into him once more.

He found himself pushed back even further as the beast's tusks clashed with his chestplate, trapping his arms by his side this time and ramming him further into the stone bluff, chunks of rock thrown loose around him. The alarms blaring in protest in his helmet only served to fuel his rage even further as he struggled to bring his arms to bear, to grab this savage beast and pummel it to death as he had done so with its master, but the mammoth would not relent.

It was at that moment that Mortis finally snapped. Whatever shred of self-preservation that remained in him was incinerated in a sudden tidal wave of hate, the ancient, alien, _blasphemous_ words of power borne from the blood of _xenos_ slipping loose between his lips. He could not, _would_ not recognize his own voice as it spat out the heretical tongue of the dragons, the words warped and twisted, lacerating his tongue with bitter ash. His righteous fury was given birth in a maelstrom of hellfire, the red-hot, angry fire lancing out of his mouth and swallowing up the mammoth in a whirlwind of lashing orange tendrils.

A shrill trumpet of agony blasted out of its snout as it stumbled back, frantically smashing its sides against the walls of the enclosed pool, stamping its feet against the crimson-stained water in a futile attempt to extinguish the ravenous swirls of fire that tore at its flesh.

With his arms free, Mortis clawed at the stone around him, yanking his torso back and forth to loosen himself from his stone prison. With one last, violent jerk, he tore himself free of the crevice's grip, stopping only to locate his sword, buried almost halfway up the blade into the stone mere meters away from him.

He ripped it out of the socket it had embedded itself in, not bothering to check its condition before brandishing it in both hands and charging the still writhing mammoth.

He ignored the warning runes that flared up in his vision as the flames that ate at the mammoth began to beat weakly upon him, ravenous tongues lapping at his impenetrable armor.

The black blade of Mortis' weapon sawed through the charred flesh of the beast's shredded throat, cutting off its continuing wails of agony as he guided it up through its pale pink cavern of a mouth before tearing it free through the roof of its head, blackened bone and hot blood splattering on his black armor.

He gnashed his teeth together as the lifeless carcass buckled and crumpled into the water, the almost liquefied corpse of the mammoth impossible to salvage for anything of worth anymore. It didn't particularly matter, it wasn't as though he was in need of gold, but it was just one more nail in the coffin for a hunt gone terribly wrong.

Still, he supposed, it wasn't over yet. One more mammoth yet remained, one more chance to redeem himself for the countless mistakes he had already made in the past few minutes. It couldn't have been far behind the first one, and so rather than recklessly leaping out of the pool to meet it head-on, Mortis instead remained inside, keeping his sword leveled, and his legs coiled up, ready to beat a hasty retreat should the beast decide to follow in the wake of its masters.

When he did not detect the telltale rumbling in the earth, the enraged trumpeting of the second beast, Mortis realized something was off. When he had sprung his attack, the two mammoths had been practically side-by-side. Surely the second one couldn't have taken _that _long to follow its companion down to his position, could it?

He furrowed his brows, straining his ears in an attempt to pick out any trace of commotion. A full ten seconds passed and the only thing he detected was the crackling of flames that had yet to finish their feast on the desecrated mammoth carcass behind him. Wherever the second one was, it wasn't anywhere near Mortis anymore.

_Damn thing might've run off, _he concluded disappointedly as he hauled himself out of the blood-drenched pool, the small stone shelf he used as leverage rumbling with protest under his weight, his mood rapidly plummeting as the excitement of combat withered. He scolded himself for losing control of himself so easily, recklessly spitting out with the heathen, foul tongue of the dragons as he had done. _Thu'um, _a voice inside that he refused to recognize as his own corrected.

_Thu'um, _he mentally spat back. The mere thought of the word was enough to open the floodgate of memories, the pagan Greybeards and their disgustingly reserved, cowardly nature, the agonizing hours he spent locked in a cold stone cell, forcing himself to memorize the blasphemous three words that spelled doom for Alduin, and then-

_No. _He would not think on this. Not now. The battle was over for the time being, but another could be lurking around the corner at any time; he had to stay focused out in the wilderness.

His already foul mood was only further soured at the sight that greeted him. The last vestiges of light had already disappeared over the horizon with the sun, and so it wasn't particularly difficult to pick out the burning husk of the second mammoth lying in a crumpled heap in the midst of the giant's encampment.

It also wasn't particularly difficult to pinpoint who was responsible for that, given how said person was currently peering back at him from underneath a hood, her unnaturally red eyes alight with a queer glow, dancing with a twisted sense of amusement.

"Having fun?" The silky voice dripped with sarcasm, grating on Mortis' ears. Of all the people he needed to see at that moment, it simply _had _to be Serana.

"You're supposed to be back at Dragonsreach," he growled, ignoring the vampire's snide barb, his baritone voice dry and humourless.

"What? You were just gonna dump me off at the palace without even giving a proper tour?" She replied, her head tilted in mock hurt. "Come on. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

One strike would be all he needed. At this distance, she wouldn't even have the time to bat an eyelash before he severed her head from neck. But he didn't. Just as he had many times before, he paused for a brief moment, closing his eyes and whispering a short prayer of forgiveness to the Emperor before staying his hand.

He let out a heavy, sigh, shaking his head in an attempt to convey exasperation, trying a different approach. "It's too dangerous out here," he lied in a futile attempt to dissuade the vampire, knowing full well what her capabilities were. "You could have been killed traversing out here on your own." He may as well have been trying to beat a Squiggoth into submission with a stick.

"You're one to talk, aren't you?" That damn smirk.

"I had it under control."

Her eyes glinted with mischief and her lips twitched, seemingly ready to deliver another snide remark but hesitated when she saw the ethereal firelight dancing in the pool behind Mortis, clearly suggesting that the situation had been anything but under control.

When she glanced back at Mortis, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his weapon, the crimson eyepieces of his helmet boring holes into her, she seemed to realize that he was in no mood for jokes.

"I… see."

He glared at her for a moment longer, but decided against further berating her. He was exhausted, not just physically but mentally as well, and inciting an argument would do little to help him in his current state.

"Let's go," he muttered, "before more trouble finds us."

"Go where?"

Mortis didn't bother to answer, simply grunting and nudging his head over in Whiterun's direction.

"That's gonna be a long walk."

"I've made further trips before."

"It'd be a lot easier if you just called your pet dragon over to pick us-"

"_No,"_ spat Mortis forcibly, the mere thought of the crimson-scaled dragon he had spared stirring the embers of his anger in his chest.

"Then let's at least set up camp for the night or something," suggested Serana in exasperation. "I'm tired as all hell, and so are you."

"I'm fi-"

"You're limping."

A sharp spike of pain shot up his right thigh. _Emperor damn it all, _he thought, he _was _ hadn't even noticed it before, but the plating had been dented, most likely from when the mammoth charged him.

"It's fine," he insisted. "Likely just a bruise or two."

"If it hurts enough to make _you _limp, I think it's a bit more than that. Let me see."

"No."

She pursed her lips, her red eyes glancing up at him in a faint sense of genuine concern.

"I passed a small alcove on the way here," she continued. "It's not too far and I saw some elk running around the general area. We could just stay there for the night."

She folded her arms over her chest, glaring back at him defiantly.

_She's not backing down on this one, _he realized. He turned his gaze back towards the towering palace of Dragonsreach, the city sitting at least a few miles away under the starry night sky. His thigh bristled in protest as he rolled his leg around, testing the extent of the wound.

"Fine," he grumbled begrudgingly. "But we move out at dawn immediately. I don't need Isran giving another pointless lecture about ensuring your safety."

The lines on her face softened, relief washing over her pale visage.

"Come on, then. The sooner we get there and get that leg looked at, the better."

_Over my dead body, _he thought. The pain was bothersome, but not excruciating, and he was more than capable of fighting with it. He would let it rest for the night, and it would heal on its own, not by the foul magicks of some heretic.

As he trudged across the mottled plains behind Serana, Mortis briefly cast his gaze skyward.

He stared at the bristling clusters of stars, fluorescent greens, reds, and blues blinking back at him. He searched for the telltale swarm of golden light that always surrounded Holy Terra, the clashing reds and purples of the nebulae surrounding clusters.

But as with every other night, there was nothing. Just a blanket of muddled, meaningless colours, not a single familiar star to guide him back to the righteous path of salvation.

**"_When the night comes down, the blade comes out._**

**_I wish, I wish, I wish I felt something at all_**

**_Nothing's wrong or right, nor black or white…"_**

The firepit cast a warm orange light over the damp walls of the alcove, the pool rippling with flashing yellow reflections as Mortis dipped the washing cloth in.

_My honour is my life._

He laid the ebony claymore over his armored knees, dried, rust-red blood marring its sheeny obsidian blade.

_My duty is my fate._

The damp cloth slid smoothly over its surface, stained sickly pink as it cleansed the weapon of xenos taint.

_My fear is to fail._

The pool's surface was broken once more, watery crimson coalescing with rippling orange as Mortis washed it off.

_My salvation is my reward._

He turned the sword over gently, repeating the process with mechanical precision.

_My craft is death._

With the last of the blood swept away, Mortis set aside the dirty washcloth and held the blade reverently in his open hands, closing his eyes as he finished the rite.

_My pledge is eternal service._

He imagined at that moment that he was not holed up under a rocky outcrop in a desolate wasteland of planet, but kneeling with his brothers in the warm candlelight of their strike cruiser's chapel, echoing Chaplain Otho's words as he led them in prayer. He heard the gravelly, baritone voice of Castellan Zacharias reverberating throughout the cathedral, eclipsing even the Chaplain's voice as he kneeled with his brothers. For one maddening, blissful moment, he was home. As Otho raised his Crozius, the golden double-headed eagle at its head blazing with holy light, he and his brothers rose as one, their lips moving in tandem as they thundered out the final lines.

"For the Emperor," he murmured as the memory faded, and cold reality began to seep back into his conscience.

He glanced up at the iron pot that hung over the fire, assorted herbs and vegetables swimming about in the bubbling water. The vampire had left several minutes ago, a hunting bow slung over her back to slay one of the elk she had spotted earlier. He had not protested when she insisted he remain at the campfire, grateful for the moment of solitude he had been gifted.

As with any feeling of contentness these days though, it did not last for long.

He didn't bother look out into the night sky as he heard approaching footsteps, already knowing who it was.

"Well that was fun," Serana piped chirpily between breaths, "though it felt a bit wasteful just leaving the whole carcass out there so…"

Mortis stared in disbelief at the disheveled vampire, her forehead and black hair matted with sweat as she began to drag the _entire _elk, trussed and skinned, into the alcove.

She glanced up at him, her eyes flashing in mild irritation.

"Aren't you going to help me with this?"

Mortis, in spite of the situation, couldn't help but crack a smug grin beneath his helmet as he answered.

"Oh, but I'm so _terribly_ wounded, am I not?"

Her reply came out between strained breaths, but lost none of its usual sarcasm. "Then maybe I should have a look at that leg after all, hmm?"

Mortis simply grunted in response and returned to inspecting his weapon, having already spent his paltry reserves of humor.

With one last heave, Serana dropped the elk corpse on the ground, unsheathing a sharp steel dagger from her belt and set to work preparing a piece for the stew.

"Alright," she queried, "any preference?"

"I'm not hungry."

She thankfully seemed to have learned from their previous argument over his leg that she didn't need to concern herself with him, accepting his answer silently and hacking off a chunk of red meat from the animal's hind thigh.

They spent the next few minutes in silence, Serana more concerned with making sure she didn't cook the meat into a blackened paste while Mortis simply sat on his rock, now wiping down his armor.

In truth, it wasn't much better. Without the incessant pestering of the vampire that followed him and with his equipment as polished as it could be, Mortis' thoughts expectedly began to wander.

The washcloth hit the stony ground with a wet _smack_ as he casually discarded it, the thing too dirtied and tainted with xenos blood to be of use to him any longer.

He surveyed his claymore, the immense, masterfully smithed weapon a gift from Ulfric in the closing days of the Civil War. It was an impressive work of craftsmanship, the blade smooth and simple but superbly balanced and razor-sharp, the folded layers ebony holding steadfast in their form even after splitting the bones of countless enemies. It was no venerated chainsword or holy power-axe honed by the Mechanicus, but it had served him well.

_The nice thing about weapons, they never betray you. _Who was it that had said that again? _Ah yes, _he thought, beginning to recall the heavily bearded weapon smith he had encountered in a Stormcloak camp. He couldn't quite remember the circumstances of his interaction with the man, or even his name, but what the man had said held a surprising amount of intelligence behind it, far more so than his physical appearance had suggested at least.

_So pay them a little respect, eh? _That had been more difficult than he had anticipated. He had never had to concern himself with prolonged maintenance of weapons or armor; certainly he knew the basic rites for cleaning his chainsword and bolter, but most of the intensive work fell to the chapter servitors. For such a primitive and yet precise art such as blacksmithing, he was no expert at it. But he had stowed his pride regardless, knowing full well that there would come a time where he would not be able to rely on the services of a professional blacksmith to sharpen his weapon. It had easily the most insulting experience of his life, the only one in all of Skyrim with the time to tutor him a damn greenskin.

His blood boiled at the memory. Thankfully, the skills he required had been fairly basic, and he had gleaned what he needed to know in a matter of days.

As far as he was concerned though, that was merely another tiny nail in the coffin, paling in comparison to the sheer torture he had been forced to endure since arriving on the planet.

The mere concept of humans living in harmony with xenos was revolting, but tolerable to an extent considering how they were not _all_ murderous, savage beasts; accepting their aid was even more repulsive, but at times, a necessary evil; but the thing that could not justify, would never have accepted, was sparing the life of an alien once they were no longer of use.

And yet, he had.

"_What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"_

Paarthurnax. He bristled with rage at the mere thought of the ancient dragon. It would have been infinitely easier to dismiss his rash action at the time, to blame it on the foul sorceries of the xenos, twisting his thoughts into those that were not his own, and for a time he had; but there was no point in denying it. He, for whatever reason, had spared a xenos, an abomination, a blasphemy against the perfection of humanity of his own conscience.

Perhaps it was the time he had spent with the Greybeards, solemnly meditating upon the tongue he reviled but needed; perhaps it was the foul alien blood that snaked through his veins like a parasite, whether present by mere heritage or the Warp's machinations as it had flung him to this faraway plane, he could not tell; and Emperor forgive him, he did not care anymore. Regardless of what had transpired in his conscience that fateful night when he marched up to the Throat of the World and walked away with his blade unmarred, he had done that of his own accord.

To have two and a half centuries of warfare, of nurtured hate towards all abhuman, beastly and sentient alike, complacent and bloodthirsty, all of his truths and falsehoods shattered in a matter of months was incomprehensible. He could not accept it. He would not accept it. He did _not want to _accept it. He had witnessed xenos fighting alongside humans, standing steadfast and fearless, the colours of the Imperial legion shining on their armor and their stone-set faces unwavering in the fields of battle; the old dragon, Paarthurnax had been patient with him, behind all of the pointless riddles he spoke in shining an honesty that burned brighter than the astronomicon; the other dragon, Odahviing, bold and aggressive, but loyal as honest as his older counterpart. And of course…

"Ow! Damn it!" The tainted. The corrupted. The heretic. The _vampire_. Mortis diverted his eyes from the glossy black surface of blade, glancing at Serana as she sucked gently at her finger.

"It's nothing. Just… got a little too close to the fire is all," she hastily explained away as wiped off her hand on the cloth sleeve of her maroon shirt.

God Emperor, it hurt.

He nodded blankly, continuing to stare at she blew gently at the stew-filled wooden bowl in her hands. He narrowed his eyes, momentarily forgetting his musings and noticing that something was indeed off about her.

Her face was gaunt and haggard, her cheeks sunken in, black rings twisting under her scarlet eyes. He hadn't noticed before since she had been wearing her hood. Even her fingers showed signs of weakness, bony and pale. She hadn't been like that since…

_The sun beat down on the cobblestone road, dancing shadows beneath his boots as he marched forwards, the vampire's footsteps pattering softly behind him. That was until, of course, she abruptly hit the ground with a jarring 'thump,' moaning weakly. "B-b-blood," she gasped. _

He glanced more closely at the finger she had been cradling earlier, noticing that she was taking particular care to keep it out of sight. She was surprisingly quiet for once, intentionally avoiding eye contact with him and staring down into her stew as she waited for it to cool.

His suspicion at her odd behavior proved to be justified as he noticed a tiny trickle of blood trailing down the finger she had apparently burned. And as far as Mortis was concerned, burn marks never left blood behind. Of course. Damn vampires.

"When was the last time you fed?"

Her head jolted up to meet his gaze, his sudden statement seemingly startling her.

"Y-yesterday. Why? What's wrong?"

"Do you take me for a fool? That mark on your finger's no burn wound. You're thirsty, aren't you?"

She hesitated for a moment before appearing to realize that there was no point in lying, heaving out a sigh and setting aside the bowl of stew as she nursed at her still bleeding finger.

"I drank a potion of blood before the castle after we…" she trailed off for a moment, her eyes shifting to the floor. "You know."

"I see," stated Mortis dryly.

It was clear that she had yet to have gotten over the death of her father, and he made no effort to bring up the subject or linger on it for long. He had never had to experience anything quite like what she had, but he understood that killing one's own kinsman was no easy task.

"That was… almost a week ago now," she finished weakly.

A week. That meant it had been just about a month since he had found her in Dimhollow. It was amazing how such a short span of time could pass by so agonizingly slowly.

"Why did you wait so long?"

"I… I thought I could try living without it. I mean, it's clear that the Dawnguard's pretty wary of me, and I didn't want to make that any worse…"

Mortis glared at her through his helmet for a good while, not entirely sure how to respond. _Why would she do that? _He wondered. She never had any qualms about her state as a vampire before, why the sudden consciousness? He dismissed the question as quickly as it came. It was irrelevant.

"Do you still have any potions with you?" He queried.

"Yes… but I left them back at Dragonsreach," she said sheepishly.

"Can you make the walk back tomorrow?"

"Yeah… yeah I think so."

_Damn woman, _he cursed, before sighing and addressing her again.

"Don't do that again," he growled. He wanted to add something else to that, but he wasn't quite sure what, and so he simply left the words hanging in the stale night air.

"Yeah," she replied quietly. "Sorry."

With that, she returned to her dinner, fishing a spoon out of her satchel and slurping quietly at her cooling stew.

Of all of the sins he had committed, perhaps the greatest was sparing the life of the woman- no- the _creature _that sat before him now. If there was one thing worse than a xenos, it was a heretic, a follower of Chaos; a bastardized parody of the human form, her blood tainted with the tendrils of the Warp. It was not nearly as evident on this planet for whatever reason, but he could still feel it, like a foul undercurrent in the air.

The only reason he had not butchered her the moment she stepped out of her stone prison was to use her, the foolish vampire asking him to escort her back to her home. He did not dare turn down the chance to discover the den of these disgusting creatures and wipe them off the face of existence. Of course, one thing led to another, the foul sorcery of her father locking him out before he could deliver the righteous judgement, and soon her existence and survival became a necessity, as she was the only one with the knowledge that would help undo her father's machinations.

He should have killed her the moment her use had been expended. He should have cut her down with the rest of her kin, _and_ her mother after she slew Harkon. He should have expected that she would eventually betray them, as such was the nature of heretics. But he didn't. She was about as transparent with her intentions as a window, and never once did he detect a trace of treachery within her. He had dismissed her initial attempts at cordiality as a ruse, to trick him into lowering his guard, but she always insisted, never relented, and soon it became clear she was making a genuine attempt at being friendly.

It was baffling. A heretic, a _witch_, attempting to befriend a Black Templar. Even amongst his own battle brothers, companionship was rare, reserved for the most intimately connected individuals. He had been fortunate enough to find this in Chaplain Otho, the grizzled old veteran of countless crusades watching over him with a fatherly affection, an inspiration to all, in the chapel, and on the battlefield.

Mortis felt around his belt, his armored fingers grazing the bound leather cover of his prayer book, the very same one gifted to him by old Otho. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, already feeling more comfortable just being reminded that it was there. He clasped it tightly, pulling it out into his view.

His hearts swelled at the familiar sight of the double-headed golden eagle on the front, worn and battered like the rest of the book but remaining ever steadfast. It was truly a testament to the might of the Imperium, and the man that had compiled the tome in the first place.

A wave of nostalgia washed over him, the Otho's voice booming from the voxcaster of his grim skull helm, seemingly reverberating throughout the very alcove he sat in.

"_Only in war are we truly faithful!" _

"_Redeem them with sword and fire!"_

"_We live and die as brothers!" _

How he yearned for his wise counsel. If he were here, he would surely guide him back to the exalted road to salvation, wash away his doubts in an apocalyptic maelstrom of retribution to the heathens that dotted this land.

But he was not here. Mortis wanted desperately for things to be the way they were again. He hoped that this was all some nightmare, perhaps a mere illusion cast upon him by the ruinous powers to break his will, but deep down he knew there was no hope for that. There would be no servitor rousing him from his deep slumber, no apothecary or chaplain to drive away the maddening visions woven by daemons; this was happening. He was stranded. Lost. No hope for rescue, no hope of return, trapped on a backwater planet light years away from the eternal war.

And so he did the only thing he could: he marched on vigilantly, continuing to carry his oath to the Eternal Crusade, his blade held high, his voxcaster booming with praises to the Emperor, his old colours, worn and battered as they were, displayed proudly.

"Mortis?"

Damn her. He hated it when she called him by name, as though she were his equal. As though the paltry few weeks they had spent in a forced alliance meant more than what it was.

"Are… are you alright?"

He remained silent, turning his gaze from the battered bundle of parchment in his hands to face Serana.

A friend. A vampire, his friend. Unbelievable. Unacceptable. Impossible. Heretical.

_Heresy, _he wondered. What _was _heresy anymore? Were the Stormcloaks heretics? Heretical in that they venerated some other god, Talos, despite their undying courage and loyalty?

Was Ralof a heretic, one of his most trusted and competent subordinates in the war, because he had spoken out against his brutal methods during the Purge of the Reach?

Perhaps most importantly, was _he _a heretic?

"_You are the bulwark against the terror. You are the defenders of humanity." _

Every atrocity to the Imperial Faith he had committed, every xenos or heretic spared, every _hour _he had spent upon this wretched world was in service to humanity. Lost or not, he had a duty to uphold. Many of the aliens here, repulsive as they were, did indeed _somehow _live in harmony with humans to a particular extent. They were no heretics for accepting that. They did not flock in droves to the beckonings of Chaos, did not whoop and scream with mad bloodthirst, did not hide and concoct schemes behind each other's backs, did not gorge themselves in blind excess and lust, did not defile the fallen.

"_You are a Space Marine." _

And thus, he was no heretic. Imperium or not, he had fulfilled his duty. He had slain the World-Eater, preserved the everlasting sun over the land; he had come to humanity's aid in its hour of need.

"_And you shall know no fear." _

"Yes. I am."

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Her eyes stared back at him, glistening ruby, boring through his armor.

_Friends. _He sighed, shaking his head. It was still too much to take in. He needed time. Time to think.

"It's getting late," he stated. "And we have, as you said, a long trek ahead of us tomorrow. You should get some rest."

She paused for a moment, perhaps pondering whether she should insist or not, but ultimately chose not to protest, simply mumbling an affirmative response as she pushed herself off of the rock she had been resting on and crawled into her bedroll.

He waited for a few scant minutes, not a single word breaking the silence. He crept over to Serana's lying form, her eyes closed, her chest rising steadily. Fast asleep.

He softly strode out of the alcove, into the cool night air, a soft wind grazing against his armor as he gazed up once more into the starry sky.

It wouldn't be nearly as simple as he would've hoped, he realized, for himself to forgive his own actions. Already the doubts were creeping back as he searched in futility for some sign of the past, some symbol of glories long dead.

He had experienced no revelation, but it was… something to consider.

"_Perhaps now you have some insight into the forces that shape the vennesetiid... the currents of Time."_

Perhaps he did. Perhaps that made him a heretic.

But for that short moment, as Mortis looked into the skies of Nirn and began to see the stars coalescing together in shapes and currents, he did not care anymore.

**"_Sometimes the hunter, sometimes the prey_**

**_Feeling like I'm trapped-_**

**_Lost and never found- _**

**_Feeling like I'm caught between two worlds…" _**

_**Hammerfall, Between Two Worlds**_


	2. Notice

So I've only just realized that there's a bunch of followers on this story that seem to have missed the new stories I've posted. When I said this was intended as a oneshot, I meant it, but now there's a couple other 'oneshots' revolving around the same idea, and the most recent one is going to be slightly longer than one chapter.

Just thought I'd drop by and say that for anyone who happens to have missed that.


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